


spoonful

by absolutefuckery



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Courting Rituals, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolutefuckery/pseuds/absolutefuckery
Summary: Annette puts her hands on her hips, one eyebrow arching imperiously upward. For someone who’s barely five feet tall on a good day, she’s suddenly taking up all the space in the room.“You know,” she says, sharp and sugar-sweet, “there are easier ways to tell Sylvain you want to court him.”-To avoid talking about his feelings, Felix takes up wood carving.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 67
Kudos: 355





	spoonful

**Author's Note:**

> quick note: a lovespoon is a fancy, hand carved wooden spoon that was used as a gift of romantic intent--usually for courtship or proposals! they're beautiful and ridiculously charming.

Studying with Annette is a double-edged sword.

She’s always helped Felix with his Reason, even back when they were enrolled at the academy. And of course, she’s a great tutor—knowledgeable, dedicated, and so genuinely enthusiastic that Felix can’t help but stay engaged with whatever he’s learning.

Then again, she’s also deeply, _deeply_ scatterbrained. This means that without fail, every time they study together she will inevitably forget at least one book in her room, which she only remembers she’s forgotten after they’ve already set up in the library, so they have to leave and then come back. Which she’s done today. Like always.

If it were anyone else, Felix would lose his patience. But it’s Annette, so he dutifully trudges halfway across the monastery after her with only a mildly beleaguered sigh.

“This will just take a second!” she assures him, and then immediately starts tearing apart her neatly kept dorm. Her assurance is a lie. This will take a great many seconds. It’s taken way too many seconds already.

Felix is midway through another, slightly more beleaguered sigh when he spots something strange on Annette’s desk.

It’s an ornately carved wooden spoon.

No—ornate is the wrong word. Ornate is underselling it. This is the most ludicrous spoon that Felix has ever laid eyes on. The handle (if one can even call is that) is a detailed mass of hearts and other symbols, all woven together with a complex curving pattern that resembles a chain. It’s an atrocity, but it’s also probably a masterpiece of woodwork.

On instinct, Felix decides he hates the thing. But for some reason he can’t stop _looking_ at it.

“What’s that?” Felix demands, pointing an accusatory finger.

Annette stops in her search, turning around to give him a bemused look. “My desk?”

“No, _that_. Is that—” The word escapes Felix and he flounders for a moment, gesturing awkwardly at the offending utensil. “Is that one of those dumb carved spoons people used to make for proposals?”

“A lovespoon?” Annette offers. Goddess, even the name is stupid. “Yes, it is!”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Are you being courted by someone from the last century?”

“No, silly.” Annette moves to her desk and picks up the lovespoon, turning it over in her hands. “My father made it. He’s really into wood carving, so when he was courting my mom, he made her a whole bunch of lovespoons. Our house was practically full of them. This one was always my favorite to look at growing up, so I like to take it with me and keep it in my room wherever I am.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but Felix has no fucking clue how to do it.

He can barely sort through his own complicated feelings about his father—all the grief, anger, and hurt, bound together in that tight knot of love he’s never managed to untie. He doesn’t know how to even start to approach Annette’s feelings about her father, who is admittedly much worse than his ever was, not to mention still alive.

He clings to the only part of her story that feels safe; the absurdity of the damn spoon.

“He courted her with lovespoons? People still do that?”

Annette giggles. “Not really! But my father is kind of old-fashioned.”

_Your father is a bastard and I hate him,_ Felix thinks but doesn’t say, if only because he knows it would upset her.

Out loud, he says, “That’s one word for him,” which earns him a light slap on the arm but doesn’t actually make Annette unhappy.

With a gentle sigh, she begins tracing the lines of the carvings with her finger almost absentmindedly, like an old habit. Felix wonders if she’s been following those same pathways ever since she was a kid.

“I know it’s sort of weird,” she starts softly, “but I think it’s sweet, too. They’re really symbolic—all of the different design elements mean different things. In the end, a lovespoon is a promise. It’s supposed to tell your betrothed that you’ll always take care of them. Which—” Annette stops suddenly, gives a sad little laugh. “Well, we all know how that worked out for my parents. But the idea is nice.”

Once again, Felix is left speechless. He’s not—good at this. He’s not good at comforting or being careful with other people’s heartache. He’s hardly careful with his own. But he’s never relished in hurting anyone’s feelings (okay, he has, but not Annette’s) so he takes a long moment and tries to come up with the least disastrous thing to say.

“It… is a nice idea,” he tries, and he means it. He still thinks giving a _spoon_ of all things is a ridiculous method of proposing, but he likes what she said about a lovespoon being a promise. Felix likes promises. He wishes Annette’s father didn’t choose to break his so spectacularly.

Annette goes quiet but she doesn’t burst into tears or start yelling at him, so Felix assumes he said the right thing. Wonderful. Now, time to redirect this conversation as far away from parental trauma as possible.

He clears his throat. “Did you find the book?”

That flawless segue makes Annette jump, popping upright like a startled cat. “Oh! Felix, you distracted me and I almost forgot again!” Felix is about to protest, because come on, but then Annette jumps again, happier this time. “There it is!”

She trades the lovespoon for the book, which was apparently hiding in plain sight on her desk the whole time. Go figure.

“Got it. Let the study session begin!” Annette holds the book over her head, triumphant, and then she’s bolting off towards the library.

Felix takes one last look at the discarded lovespoon before following her out the door and resolving not to think about it.

__________

Two days later, Felix procures a hunk of wood. He’s decided he’s going to try his hand at carving.

Now, for the record, this isn’t about the fucking spoon. Felix hasn’t been thinking about the spoon. What did it even look like? He doesn’t remember. Felix is taking up wood carving for reasons that are completely unrelated to the spoon—which is antiquated and dumb, by the way. Not that he’s thinking about it. 

Okay, fine. He is, but only a little bit.

The problem is that looking at the lovespoon evoked two very specific, visceral feelings in Felix. The first being, obviously: _That’s horrendous and I hate it._ But the second (and here’s the issue) was a distinct and resounding: _I could make that._

Felix has never delved too deeply into artistic pursuits before. It’s not that he doesn’t like or respect the arts—he does, he’s just bad at them. Growing up, Ingrid wrote stories, Dimitri learned piano, and Sylvain excelled at anything he put even half his heart into. And Felix had… swords. And more swords, that he used when he wasn’t using the other ones.

Maybe this is an artform Felix can get into. It’s certainly a knife-heavy hobby, which is appealing.

Plus, Byleth has been getting on his case for ‘overexerting’ himself—which he thinks is bullshit, because what’s more important than training when they’ve got a _war_ going on, but whatever. Having something to do with his hands that’s not holding a sword could make him less restless.

So he’s giving it a shot. After dinner, he takes the wood and a dagger to the Knight’s Hall, finds a comfortable spot on the bench in front of the fire, and starts trying to make… something. The dagger he’s using is of the ‘killing people’ variety so it’s a bit too big and clunky for carving, but he’ll make it work. If nothing else, Felix knows his way around a blade.

Or so he thinks. One hour in and the block of wood still hasn’t come to resemble anything. Besides, you know, a really fucked up block of wood.

Felix is so focused on attempting to unfuck it that he nearly startles at the sound of footsteps entering the Knight’s Hall, but he instantly recognizes the familiar gait and it sets him at ease. The hand that rests fleetingly on his shoulder in greeting is equally familiar but substantially more maddening.

Then, of course, comes the familiar frame dropping down onto the opposite side of the bench, and the familiar voice. “You taking up wood carving?”

There’s a hint of laughter in Sylvain’s tone—not mocking, just amused. Maybe a little incredulous.

Felix keeps his eyes on his work. “Just wanted to see if I could do it.”

“You? Having hobbies? That aren’t studying the blade?” Even without looking, Felix knows the exact expression of exaggerated faux-shock Sylvain is wearing. Jackass. “Who are you and what have you done with Felix Fraldarius?”

“Technically,” Felix pauses his carving just to shoot Sylvain a flat look, “this still counts as studying the blade.”

To punctuate his point, he brandishes the dagger at him.

A lesser man (or perhaps a man with a brain) would shrink at that, but Sylvain just laughs. “Now there’s the Felix I know and love!”

_Love._

It’s stupid that Felix’s heart stutters at the word. Beyond stupid. Sylvain throws the word ‘love’ around like he’s getting paid to use it. He said it to all his girlfriends, used to claim he fell ‘madly in love’ with women he saw once on the street. He’s gotten better about that lately, thank goddess, but he still says it too much. Sylvain tells all his friends he loves them. Just yesterday, Dorothea gave him half of her peach sorbet and he asked her to marry him.

Still, hearing the word makes Felix’s heart do that ridiculous jumpy thing it always does around Sylvain, and then his mind supplies him with an image of the fucking spoon.

“What are you gonna make?” Sylvain asks, as if on cue.

Felix shrugs. “Don’t know.”

That’s not a lie. Even though this whole thing was (begrudgingly) inspired by seeing the lovespoon, that doesn’t mean Felix is going to make one himself. Actually, so far he really hasn’t been working with a plan in mind—he just started carving.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s why it’s going so poorly.

“Hey.” Sylvain inches closer, excited and conspiratorial like he’s got a secret or a bad idea. “You should make something for me.” Ah, so it is a bad idea. “Like, a mermaid. Oh! Or Lady.”

“I’m not making you a mermaid.” Felix fights back a grin. “Or your horse.”

“What? What do you have against Lady?”

“Heard her rider’s a prick.”

“Oh, Sylvain Gautier? Yeah, fuck that guy. He’s kinda hot, though.”

Felix launches a playful kick at him but Sylvain sees it coming, reaching out and catching his leg midair with a victorious “HA!” For a moment, Felix half expects him to sharply tug forward and set them off wrestling—the way they did when they were kids playing knights and then occasionally when they were teenagers, looking for an excuse to touch each other. 

He doesn’t, though. Instead, Sylvain gently rests Felix’s leg in his lap, then wordlessly gestures for the other one to join it. With a quiet huff, Felix complies.

This is normal. This is a normal thing that friends do together. They don’t need excuses to touch each other anymore; sometimes they just do it.

And sometimes the touching falls outside the bounds of ‘normal’ friendship. Not that they’ve put a name on it—the hurried kisses, the way they move together in shared tents and darkened rooms. It’s just… a thing they do now. It doesn’t mean anything.

Felix goes back to carving, though he doubts he’s going to have much luck with it. His little art project was already faring miserably when he could dedicate all his attention to it, but now his focus is split between the unfortunate piece of wood and the warm weight of Sylvain’s hand on his calf.

And don’t even get him started on the way he can feel Sylvain just _looking_ at him, like—oh, Felix doesn’t know. Like an asshole.

Felix lets out a sharp sigh. “What?”

He glances up quick enough to catch Sylvain looking away, suddenly deeply interested in the mantle above the fire. “Nothing. Just,” his gaze flits to Felix’s hands, “maybe you should wear gloves or something? Don’t want to cut yourself carving.”

Felix frowns. “I’m not going to cut myself,” he says, right as he cuts himself. “Shit.”

To his credit, Sylvain doesn’t laugh, though it’s obvious he kind of wants to. Felix is furious anyway.

“Hey, hey, come here, let me fix it.”

Felix weighs the pros and cons of telling Sylvain to fuck off. On the one hand, this is humiliating. On the other hand—well, his other hand _is_ bleeding. He’ll need to get the cut healed eventually, and the mere thought of having to explain to anyone else that he sliced his hand open on his own dagger while _wood carving_ makes Felix want to lock himself in his room Bernadetta-style and never come out.

Sylvain reaches towards him, smiling patient and a little bit smug.

“Shut up,” Felix grumbles, but he scoots closer and gives Sylvain his injured hand anyway.

There’s some shitty quip on Sylvain’s tongue, Felix can tell, but it promptly dies away when he gets a better look at the cut. Further examination draws his face taut in concern, which is foolish. Felix has survived stabbings, monster attacks, and nearly being set on fire—this is essentially a large papercut.

Yet here Sylvain is, holding Felix’s hand like he’s delicate. Felix concentrates on all the ways that pisses him off, so he doesn’t have to think about any of the other ways it makes him feel.

Bright light surrounds Felix’s hand as Sylvain heals the cut, accompanied by a flood of comforting heat. Sylvain’s magic has always run hot, just like the rest of him. The wound closes quickly, as though it was never there in the first place. When the light fades and he’s all finished, Sylvain runs his thumb over Felix’s palm in soft, reassuring circles. 

“Good as new,” he says, like he’s reminding himself.

Felix flexes his hand, still cradled in Sylvain’s own. _Good as new_. “You’re getting better.”

“You think so?” Sylvain’s grin is crooked and real. “Mercedes has been giving me tips.”

The glow of the fireplace catches Sylvain’s hair too well, painting him red and gold like an autumn sunset, or maybe just the sun. _Terrible_ , Felix thinks, as he continues to strap on his proverbial wax wings and fly straight into him.

“Thanks,” he says, curt but genuine.

“Any time,” Sylvain says, too easy, and suddenly Felix is thinking about the fucking spoon again, the way Annette said it’s a promise _. It’s supposed to tell your betrothed that you’ll always take care of them._

“You can show your gratitude by carving something cool for me.”

__________

The first lovespoon is an accident, honestly.

Ignatz once told Felix about famous sculptors who claimed that marble had a mind of its own, that there was something inside it they needed to ‘free’ by chiseling it out or whatever. At the time, Felix thought this was absolute horseshit, and he told Ignatz as much.

But he kind of gets it now. It’s not like he was _trying_ to make a lovespoon. This piece of wood just happened to have one inside it, and Felix just happened to have the misfortune of carving it out.

Really, this is all the wood’s fault. And Annette’s, for showing him a lovespoon in the first place. And Sylvain’s, for popping into his head every time he carved another horrible heart into this absolute abomination.

But regardless of who’s to blame (not Felix), his monstrosity of woodwork is almost complete. Felix is carefully whittling out some final touches in the empty common room when the goddess decides to punish him for his crimes by making it substantially less empty.

“Oh, hi Felix! Hey, are you carving?”

Fuck. Annette.

“Wait, is that—” _Oh no_. Felix scrambles to get the spoon out of sight, but it’s too late. Annette lights up like a forest fire. “Oh goddess, you’re making a _lovespoon_ , aren’t you?”

This is a disaster. She’s got this awful look on her face, like she can’t quite decide whether she wants to start laughing or cooing at him. It’s a zero sum game because either option _will_ make Felix die on the spot.

Instead, though, she winds up picking an impossibly worse third choice: trying to pluck the spoon from Felix’s hands.

“Let me see!” she squeals, rushing towards him at top speed. Annette has tiny little baby hands, which theoretically should not be good for grabbing things, but she’s fucking _quick_. Felix leaps from his chair and ducks out of the way.

“It’s not a lovespoon, it’s just—” Somehow, Annette gets him cornered. Felix resorts to holding it above his head, out of her reach, which only serves to make her start jumping. “It’s just a spoon.”

Annette gets a solid hold on Felix’s arm and starts attempting to climb him. “It’s got hearts carved in it and everything!”

“ _Irrelevant_ ,” Felix snaps, finally managing to (gently) shake her off. His dormant Younger Sibling Instincts activate and he clutches the spoon tightly to his chest, entirely too protective over something he should probably use for kindling.

“I was just impressed with the design of the one you had,” he says, looking anywhere but Annette’s smiling face. “I wanted to see if I could make one like it. That’s all.”

Annette puts her hands on her hips, one eyebrow arching imperiously upward. For someone who’s barely five feet tall on a good day, she’s suddenly taking up all the space in the room.

“You know,” she says, sharp and sugar-sweet, “there are easier ways to tell Sylvain you want to court him.”

Hitting Felix over the head with a chair would have been more merciful.

“I don’t— _Sylvain?_ I’m not trying to—I don’t want to court Sylvain.”

Felix is vaguely aware that stumbling over his words like this isn’t exactly convincing, but. _How the hell did she know?_ About him and Sylvain and their… thing. Does she know they’re sleeping together? Does everyone know?

“Please, you’re not subtle.” Okay, so everyone knows. “Who else would that spoon be for?”

“Maybe it’s for you,” Felix deadpans. “What would you think about that?”

A few years ago that comment would have scandalized her, had her fleeing from the room with a _‘you’re EVIL, Felix!’_ or something of the like. It’s a testament to how close they’ve gotten that now it only makes her snort.

“I don’t want your spoon, Felix,” she scoffs, with so much dismissal that he’s almost insulted. Then she grins, voice lilting sing-song, “But I know someone who _does_!”

“Sylvain doesn’t want my spoon.” He isn’t sure they’re talking about spoons anymore. “And anyway, it’s not for him. The spoon isn’t for anyone. It’s no one’s spoon.”

“You sure are spending a lot of time on a spoon for no one.”

Felix doesn’t dignify that with a response, just glares at her. It’s not one of his best. He’s bad at glaring at Annette.

She sighs. “Well. _If_ you were making a lovespoon for _somebody_ , I’d tell you that you ought to do it right. Like I said before, there’s a lot of symbolism that goes into lovespoons. I could tell you about different designs and what they mean,” her tone remains carefully impassive but her growing smirk sure doesn’t, “ _if_ you wanted to make a good one.”

Damn it, she’s got him there. Felix likes to be good at things.

“Fine,” he says, with all the enthusiasm of a man agreeing to the terms of his own execution.

Annette claps her hands, bouncing in excitement. “Yay! And you should get a better knife for carving. If you keep using that one you’ll just end up cutting your hand open.” Felix frowns and pointedly neglects to tell her that ship’s already sailed. “You could ask my father what tools he uses.”

“I’m not asking _Gilbert_ for advice.”

“Good luck getting Sylvain to put a ring on your finger after you’ve chopped it off!”

Felix has a snappy comeback for that, which he doesn’t get to say because he’s choking on his own spit. By the time he recovers, Annette is already on her way out the door, humming as she goes.

“Come find me when you’re ready to talk symbols!” she calls, and then she’s gone.

Once again, Felix is left alone with his spoon and his thoughts, both of which are deeply unappealing.

Courtship? A _ring_? He doesn’t want that from Sylvain. Does he? He shouldn’t. It’s foolish to want things you can’t have.

Things are fine the way they are, anyway. Sylvain is his personal nuisance, his best friend, and his occasional lover—and that’s fine. After the war, Sylvain will marry someone else and Felix will probably be his best man and that will be fine too. Felix will see Sylvain at the altar with someone else and he will not attempt to draw a sword on anyone involved in the ceremony, because he’ll be fine with it.

The stabbing ache in his chest doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes it just does that.

Felix doesn’t need Gilbert’s carving advice. He doesn’t need to make another (better) lovespoon. He doesn’t even need Sylvain. Everything is fine. 

__________

The next day, Felix caves and goes to see Annette’s father.

It takes him a while to find Gilbert, seeing as Felix generally avoids the man at all cost, but eventually he spots him by the pond, looking pensively over the water like an asshole. Typical.

“Ah, Felix,” Gilbert says, turning at the sound of his stomping approach. The smile he gives him is more than a little strained. “Can I help you with something?”

He sounds wary, which makes sense. Felix knows he doesn’t exactly have a reputation for his sparkling personality.

He also knows that Gilbert spent a lot of time around his father in the brief few months that that Rodrigue was with them at the monastery.

Felix and his father never really understood each other. Or maybe they did, and they just didn’t like what they understood. Regardless, he’s got no idea what Rodrigue might have told Gilbert about him. Maybe he complained, about his _difficult_ second son, the one who could never quite measure up to the one he lost. Maybe he told Gilbert that in spite of everything, he was proud of Felix, though he’d never be able to say it to his face. Or maybe—and this is what makes his whole body go tense—maybe he didn’t talk about Felix at all.

No use thinking about it now.

Gilbert is still looking at him, warier now, because Felix has just been glaring openly in his general direction. Good. He should be wary.

There are lots of things Felix would like to say to Gilbert—Gustave—this fucking guy. Things like, _You are a miserable excuse for a man and knight, a monument to everything backwards and archaic about Faerghus._ Or maybe, _Your daughter is spectacular and you don’t deserve her._ Or perhaps, _I’m angry that my father is dead and you’re still here._

There’s more. It’s all thrumming underneath his skin, itching at the tip of his tongue. But Felix has better self-control than anyone’s ever given him credit for, so he swallows it all down and doesn’t challenge Gilbert to a duel in the middle of the monastery.

Instead, through gritted teeth, he asks, “What’s the best kind of knife to use for wood carving?”

__________

This is a bad idea. This is, perhaps, the worst idea that any human being has ever had.

Felix finished the lovespoon. The new one, the _better_ one, as Annette suggested. And now he’s going to give it to Sylvain, like some kind of fucking lunatic who gives people wooden utensils to show their affection. Who is he? _Gilbert?_

Even though all common sense tells Felix not to, his stubbornness outweighs his rationality and he’s already made up his mind that he’s going to do it. It’s just—he’s come this far, right? He’s carved _two_ spoons. Might as well give Sylvain one of them, just so he never has to see it again.

The lovespoon weighs heavily in his pocket for half a week while he waits for a good moment to give it to Sylvain.

The moment comes at the tail end of a long sparring session, with Felix and Sylvain alone in the training grounds as daylight fades to dusk. They’ve been using swords, which have never been Sylvain’s strong suit, so Felix has won every bout. But even though he whines every time he loses, Sylvain’s still here—spending his evening getting his ass kicked by Felix like there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

Or maybe he just can’t get up. He’s been laying on the floor for about a minute, though Felix thinks that has more to do with his penchant for theatrics than it does with genuine exhaustion.

“You alive?” Felix asks, nudging him lightly with his foot.

Sylvain grins up at him, chest heaving. “Nope. You killed me. Congratulations on ending the Gautier bloodline.”

Felix bites back a laugh and Sylvain grins harder. He pats the ground next to him.

“Get down here. Take a break.”

“I’m not going to lay on the floor,” Felix huffs, and he doesn’t. He _sits_ on the floor next to Sylvain, which is totally different.

For a moment they just stay like that, content and quiet in the empty training grounds. It’s nice. Easy. Well, time for Felix to ruin it.

“Do you remember the wood carving I was working on?”

“Yeah! You ever finish it?

Felix swallows, gives him a nod. “It’s done.” He digs through his pocket and pulls out the spoon, wrapped up in the brightly colored paper that Annette found and _insisted_ Felix use. It’s a bit rumpled after a few days sitting in Felix’s pocket, but there’s nothing he can do about that now. He shoves it towards Sylvain. “Here, take it.”

Sylvain sits up in surprise. “Wait, it’s for me?” He reaches out to take the package but stops short, suddenly troubled. “Y’know, I was just messing with you before. You didn’t really have to make me anything.”

He’s got that stupid guilty look on his face, the one he makes whenever someone goes out of their way to do something nice for him—like he’s convinced he duped you somehow, like there’s no way in the world he could deserve it. This is one of Felix’s least favorite Sylvain Expressions.

“I know that,” Felix snaps, harsher than intended. _I made it because I wanted to,_ he thinks, though it’s not what comes out of his mouth. “I didn’t make it for you, I just don’t want it anymore.”

That at least gets the terrible look off of Sylvain’s face, replaced with wry amusement.

“Felix. You wrapped it.”

He _did_. Felix’s face heats. “I was tired of looking at it.” Once again, he thrusts the cursed object towards Sylvain, eyes locked on the floor. “Do you want it or not?”

“Of course I do! You know I never turn down a gift.” Sylvain takes the package carefully, weighing it in each hand like he’s trying to guess what it is. If he’s expecting a mermaid, he’ll be sorely disappointed. “Can I open it?”

Felix fights the urge to snatch it back from him and flee the scene. “Do what you want.”

Even with his eyes fixed on the ground, Felix can feel Sylvain beaming at him. He only looks up at the sound of paper tearing, the moment of truth.

“It’s—a spoon?” Sylvain’s face does something complicated, which could mean anything. He’s always doing complicated things with his face.

When he glances back up at Felix, his eyes are strangely intent even as cocks his head in confusion. This is his strategist face, his face for chess games with opponents that make him drop the bullshit and start really trying. Felix likes this Sylvain Expression, but not in this context.

He looks like he wants an explanation, which officially makes this the nightmare scenario. Felix didn’t plan for this—he wasn’t supposed to have to say anything out loud. Why doesn’t Sylvain just get it?

In a rush, Felix says, “If you don’t want it, I’ll just throw it away.”

“What?” Sylvain cradles the spoon protectively. “No, screw you, I love it. I’m gonna eat so much soup with this baby.”

_You can’t eat soup with the symbol of my feelings for you_ , Felix thinks but doesn’t say, because that’s the single worst sentence that’s ever popped into his head. This was a mistake. Of course Sylvain doesn’t understand. Why would he? Felix needs to leave, and possibly walk into the forest and never return.

He makes to get up but Sylvain catches his hand, gentle but firm enough to anchor him in place. When Felix turns to look at him, the searching expression has disappeared, with something almost shy taking its place.

“Hey, I mean it. This is really great, Felix.” Sylvain takes a moment to study the lovespoon, running his fingers over the carvings with a tenderness that makes Felix’s chest go tight. His smile is small and genuine and absolutely lethal. “I like the hearts.”

Felix’s face is going to melt off. “ _Of course you do_ ,” he seethes, and then he’s leaping to his feet and storming out of the training grounds.

“Felix, wait! Let’s grab dinner. Maybe they’re serving soup tonight!”

__________

Felix is cursed. He can’t stop making lovespoons. Even worse, he can’t stop giving them to Sylvain.

It goes like this:

“I made another,” he says, discreetly sliding one across the table to Sylvain at the dining hall during breakfast.

And then:

“Shut up, just take it,” he says, tucking one into Lady’s saddlebag before they start on a march.

And again:

“I don’t want this anymore,” he says, dropping one into Sylvain’s lap as he waits for Manuela in the infirmary.

And _again_ :

“Wait,” he says, pulling back from Sylvain’s leisurely parting kiss. It’s late and he’s about to go back to his own room and Felix doesn’t want him to, but he also doesn’t know how to ask him to stay.

_“I’ll get out of your hair,”_ Sylvain had said, winking, like Felix couldn’t see right through him, the real self-deprecation glinting sharp behind his joking tone. Sylvain is the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. Felix should tell him that. Felix should tell him that he _wants_ Sylvain in his hair, wants him in his bed, wants too much of him.

He doesn’t.

“This is—you should have this,” Felix mutters, grabbing the latest creation from his desk and pressing it into Sylvain’s hands.

And so on and so forth.

Sylvain never asks for an explanation and Felix can’t bring himself to give him one. Every time, Sylvain just thanks him, smiling earnest and bewildered in a way he almost never is. It’s awful.

Doesn’t stop Felix from making the spoons, though.

__________

Felix and Annette are _supposed_ to be studying. Felix is hitting a brick wall with a new Reason spell and Annette is _supposed_ to help him through it. She even remembered all the right books this time.

Except they’re not studying. Annette is just looking at him, expectantly. She taps a steady rhythm on table with her fingers, almost like a drumroll. When she stops, her lips curl up into a mischievous smile.

“So.”

Felix blinks. “So?”

“Oh, don’t you ‘so’ me, mister!” Annette scolds, even though technically she ‘so’-ed him first. “Did you ever give Sylvain the lovespoon?”

Oh. That. Felix has really been hoping she’d forgotten about that. But, of course, that would be too easy.

He can’t help his grimace. “Yes.”

“And?” She’s practically vibrating in her seat. “What did he say? Are you courting?”

“No.”

Annette deflates, quick as a gust of air. “What? He said no? Felix, I’m so—”

“No, that’s not—he didn’t say no. I just.” Felix swallows thickly. This is going to be a shitshow. “Didn’t ask. About courting.”

Annette’s eyes narrow. “So you just… gave him the spoon? And didn’t tell him what it meant?”

“Five,” Felix mumbles.

“What?”

“I’ve given him five spoons.”

“You’ve given him _five spoons_?” Annette’s voice goes up an octave with each word. It would be very impressive if it wasn’t also very loud, and kind of frightening. She’s going to get them kicked out of the library. “Five _lovespoons_? And the whole _love_ part just never came up?”

Well, now that she puts it like that, it _does_ feel kind of stupid.

Annette closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. When she opens them, she’s unnervingly calm. “Felix. You’re going to tell Sylvain what those spoons meant, or I’m going to attack you like a wild animal.”

Automatically, Felix blurts, “I’m better at grappling than you are.”

Annette’s mouth falls open in soundless indignation, and for a moment, Felix is positive she’s actually going to try to beat him to death.

Instead, she changes tact. “I’ll tell Ingrid. If you think I’m mad, just _wait_ until she hears about this!”

“Annette—”

There’s no stopping her now. She throws down her trump card: “I’ll tell _Dimitri_. He’ll probably think the spoon thing is really sweet and he’ll congratulate you about it and be embarrassingly sincere. And you’ll _hate_ it.”

Goddess, she’s right. Dimitri would be horrifically supportive. He might even ask Felix to teach him how to make a lovespoon of his own for Marianne. And yes, okay, they’re repairing their friendship bit by bit, but Felix is nowhere near ready to walk the oaf through the intricacies of carving while he accidentally breaks knives, wood, and (eventually and unintentionally) Felix’s spirit.

“I don’t—” Felix tries for aloof and lands squarely in anxious, “I don’t even know if I want to court him.”

That’s not entirely a lie. Felix has always hated the idea of traditional courting. It’s too showy, too easily warped by ulterior motives. Especially in noble circles, where courtship is as much for the happy couple as it is for politics and every gossip within earshot. Can’t two people just be in love, without all the bullshit pageantry?

“You do want to be with him, though. Don’t you?” Annette asks, like it’s that simple. Maybe it is. “Felix, you don’t just hand carve five wooden spoons for someone you’re not in love with.”

He _knows_ that. He’s known that for years. That’s not the problem.

The problem: “I don’t know if he wants me.”

Annette levels him with a look so exasperated it’s actually quite reassuring. “Talk to Sylvain before the week is out, or so help me, I will sick every busybody in this army on you all at once.”

__________

Two knocks and Sylvain’s door swings open. It’s late but he doesn’t look at all surprised to see Felix, which should be entirely more irritating than it is.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the doorframe—a bold attempt at nonchalance from someone who clearly rushed to open the door. “Can’t sleep?”

The corners of his mouth quirk up, almost wolfish, because for them, ‘ _can’t sleep_ ’ has essentially become a euphemism for ‘We’re Going To Have Sex.’ Which—okay, yeah, they probably will, but first they’re going to have a conversation.

Felix rolls his eyes and pushes past him inside. “I need to talk to you.”

“Ominous,” Sylvain says, closing the door behind him. “What’s up?”

What indeed. Felix realizes, abruptly, that he has no idea how to have this conversation. He’s never confessed his feelings for anyone before, but he gets the sense that “ _I keep making spoons for you because I love you,”_ is probably a bad opening line.

Clenching and unclenching his fingers, Felix glances around the room, desperate to have his eyes on anything that’s not Sylvain.

As always, the room is shockingly neat. Though he spends more time in here than he’d probably like to admit, Felix is usually otherwise… preoccupied, so he doesn’t get much of a chance to look around. That’s probably why this is the first time he notices the lovespoons resting on top of one of Sylvain’s drawers, arranged carefully on a piece of red cloth like they’re on display. Like they’re something valuable. Something he really cares for.

“What do you think about the spoons?” Felix blurts, entirely too loud, which is as good a start for this conversation as any.

“Hm. Spoons. A good utensil. Perhaps not the most versatile, but if we’re talkin’ soup, then there’s really no—”

Felix drags a hand down his face and groans. “Not spoons in general, you fool. I said _the_ spoons. My spoons.”

“Ah, those.” The teasing look falls from Sylvain’s face, replaced by something terribly fond. “I really like them, Felix.”

That’s barely a compliment, honestly, but of course he had to go and say it in that soft, sincere _Sylvain voice_ that makes Felix want to bash his head against a wall. Or, alternatively—shove Sylvain against a wall and kiss him until he forgets his own name.

Felix takes a deep, grounding breath and does neither of those things.

Instead, he steps closer, willing his voice to come out steady. “Do you know what they mean?”

Sylvain sucks in a sharp breath and then—wait, why the fuck is he _laughing_?

For a moment, Felix’s body goes rigid with rage and humiliation, until he realizes that the laughter isn’t mocking but _relieved_. A tension that Felix hadn’t even realized was there slowly slips from Sylvain’s shoulders as he laughs, loose and happy.

“I do,” Sylvain says finally, breathless. “I was starting to think that you didn’t.”

Disbelief must show on Felix’s face, because Sylvain laughs again, now a bit nervous.

“Come on, you’re talking to Garreg Mach’s number one whore. I know about all kinds of courtship rituals. Even the old, wood carve-y ones.”

Huh. Felix probably should have thought of that. Embarrassment paints his face a deep and vivid red.

“So you knew this whole time? About my,” Felix clears his throat but his voice still cracks on the word, “intentions?”

Sylvain lets out a sharp huff of air, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “Gonna be honest here, I had no idea what you were intending. You just kept giving me spoons? Completely out of the blue? I mean, I was _hoping_ , but I didn’t want to assume.”

That gets Felix’s attention. “You were hoping?”

Sylvain flushes and looks away, one hand rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Of course I was, Felix,” he says, very quiet. “I’ve been hoping for a long time.”

It’s as though the wind has been knocked out of Felix’s lungs, then knocked right back in again.

The soft pink dusting Sylvain’s profile is mesmerizing, welding Felix in place. All at once, they’re too close and not close enough. It’s funny—he’s touched Sylvain so much in this room but suddenly he doesn’t know how to, now that the curtain’s been lifted on all this longing living between them. Felix’s hands lie limply at his sides, aching to do _something_.

“How much do you know about lovespoons?” he asks.

Sylvain turns, curious and still a little bashful. “Just what the name implies—that they’re hand carved spoons you use to declare your love. And that’s pretty much it.”

Felix turns and goes to the drawer with the lovespoons on it. It’s a physical ache, pulling out of Sylvain’s orbit, but he pushes through it, moving quickly. He picks up the most recent one, undoubtably his best, and rushes back to Sylvain.

“Look,” Felix says, gently pushing the lovespoon into Sylvain’s hands. Starting at the base of the handle, Felix runs his fingers carefully over the carvings, pointing out the different pieces. “The twisted stem symbolizes togetherness. Two lives intertwined. The horseshoe is for luck—to, um. To keep you safe. And also,” Felix coughs, “because you like horses.”

Sylvain places a hand over Felix’s and squeezes reassuringly. “I do like them.”

Felix keeps his eyes firmly on the spoon. If he looks at Sylvain’s face right now, he’ll die (or start crying, which would arguably be worse).

“The lock is for security,” he says, tracing its shape. “It means I’ll take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

“What do the hearts mean?” Sylvain asks, voice suddenly choked.

“You _know_ what they mean,” Felix snaps, without an once of venom. When he finally peeks up at Sylvain, looking more open and vulnerable than he’s seen him in his entire life, the words fall out easily: “I love you.”

A small, wounded noise bursts from Sylvain’s lips like it’s been punched out of him, and then he’s surging forward to kiss Felix, desperate and tender. The act is so clumsy and full of nervous energy that it might as well be their first kiss, but that’s alright. Somehow, it’s the best they’ve ever had.

When Sylvain draws back, he looks wrecked. “So you really want to court me, huh?” he says, eyes wet, smile wobbly.

Felix doesn’t particularly believe in courting. Honestly, he barely believes in marriage. But he does believe in working tirelessly for the things he wants, and he wants Sylvain. He wants all of him, every day, for the rest of his life. So if he has to endure all the ludicrous rituals of courtship to be with him, then he’ll do it. 

He’ll make a hundred more of these fucking spoons if he can do it at Sylvain’s side.

“If that’s what you want,” Felix says, reaching up to cup his face. “I just want you.”

The next kiss is smoother, more languid. Sylvain takes his time unraveling Felix, sucking softly on his bottom lip, relishing in his soft sighs and the way they melt together.

“Does this mean I have to make you a spoon too?” he mumbles, smiling against Felix’s mouth.

Felix makes a face. “Absolutely not.”

“You think I can’t make a spoon?”

“I’ve made enough spoons for the both of us.”

Sylvain laughs at that, winding his arms around Felix and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before tucking him under his chin.

“After the war,” he starts, and goddess, isn’t _that_ a thought, “I’ll learn to knit, or something. There’s gotta be a courting ritual that involves making your partner a scarf, right? Or maybe mittens?”

“Sylvain. This isn’t tit for tat.” Felix pauses to let Sylvain snicker at his use of the word ‘tit.’ “You don’t have to make me anything.”

“I know, but I want to.” Sylvain pulls back to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Felix’s ear. “I want to show you that I’ll take care of you too.”

Felix almost laughs, thinking of all the blows taken, wounds healed, all the comfort and easy smiles always there whenever he needs them. Sylvain really is the biggest fool on the planet.

“Idiot,” he huffs, pressing his face into Sylvain’s shoulder. “You already do.”

For a moment, all is quiet except for the soft sounds of their breathing and Sylvain’s fingers carding through Felix’s hair.

“I’m still gonna make you something.”

Felix lets out a sigh, far more long-suffering than he actually feels. “Fine. Mittens.”

**Author's Note:**

> epilogue notes: yes, sylvain makes felix mittens. they are terrible and felix loves them. also, dimitri DOES find out about the spoons and definitely makes felix teach him how to make one. they bond, it’s fun, dimitri breaks 12 knives. 
> 
> this was very silly but i had a ton of fun working on it! thank you so much for reading!!


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